


Sweet Beginnings and Bitter Endings

by SinnamonSpider



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Past Relationship(s), Phone Sex, Sibling Incest, Stanford Era, Tumblr Prompt, Underage Drinking, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:44:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinnamonSpider/pseuds/SinnamonSpider
Summary: Sam is lying on his back in the grass, sweat beading on his forehead and at the small of his back, and recalling hot, sticky days spent with Dean, not so long ago.





	Sweet Beginnings and Bitter Endings

**Author's Note:**

> My response to the June Wincest Writing Challenge on Tumblr. Prompt was hot days, for the "Summer" theme. 
> 
> Hilariously, I've already done a few pieces on hot days so I was kinda dreading this, trying to figure out how to revisit a theme I've already tackled. Found a way, though if you're interested in a different take on the same prompt, allow me to SHAMELESSLY PLUG Chapter 6 of my collection Stereo Love, "Always Wanting More", which is a bit more what I would have done with this prompt had I not already done it!
> 
> And apparently I'm in some kinda angsty Stanford era mood lately. Can't shake it. Oh well. Title is from "Summer Sunshine" by The Corrs.
> 
> Standard disclaimers apply. Feedback is deliriously consumed and then greedily hoarded in my inbox.

It's hot as fuck.

Having spent a good portion of his life in the South, Sam thought he was okay with heat. Thought he understood it. Thought he had a relationship with it. 

He liked the heat. Liked the sunshine, like being out in it. His skin would turn golden after only minutes. Not like Dean: pale, fair-maiden-skinned Dean, who would go pink and then lobster red, whose shoulders were always peeling, whose cheeks and nose were dusted with cinnamon freckles. Dean didn't do so well in the heat. He belonged to the Pacific Northwest, Oregon and Washington, where it rained six days out of seven and clouds hid the sun from view. Sam belonged to the South, below the Mason-Dixon line, Texas and New Mexico and Florida if they were on the east coast.

And California.

But it's hot as fuck. Palo Alto is pretty far north, but it's still California and it's still hot. Especially in July.

Sam's on summer break, working in a movie theater to pay the bills. It's almost unpleasantly cold in there, something about having to keep the film rolls cool. But there are definitely worse places to work through the summer.

But the mercury is over one hundred today and it's Sam’s day off. He could go to a movie, use his cast tickets, but he's seen everything worth seeing. He'd haunt the mall like the majority of the college kids still lingering around, but he needs every buck he can scrounge and the mall is dangerous temptation to someone who's never had the luxury of spending extended time at one.

His temporary apartment doesn't have AC. It's crummy and run-down, but his residence closes through the summer and the place is cheap enough. It's stifling, though, so Sam heads to the park instead.

He buys a six pack of cheap beer and tosses them in a cooler, surreptitiously pouring one into his Stanford double-walled tumbler. It's cold enough to stay drinkable. He claims a spot under a big tree with lots of leaves and sprawls in the shade.

Drinking in a public park at noon on a weekday isn't usually his style, but his options are kinda limited. It's Friday, after all, and he's spent all week in the library anyways. He deserves a day off.

Three beers in and Sam is pleasantly buzzed. He's lying on his back in the grass, sweat beading on his forehead and at the small of his back, and recalling hot, sticky days spent with Dean, not so long ago.

Days in Tennessee, Nevada, Arizona, Georgia. Days when they would search out the best source of water in the area, wherever they happened to be at the moment, and submerge themselves until they wrinkled like raisins. Days when all they would eat was ice cream and popsicles, tacky with melting juice, bees buzzing near their sweet fingers and mouths. Days when all that was asked of them was what they demanded from each other: hot skin on skin, sticky mouths pressed together, hands wandering over miles of exposed flesh. Days written in spinning colours: golden tan and lobster red, bright green and dizzying hazel, white flashes of teeth and white streaks painting their chests and bellies.

Those days are over now.

But Sam, a little drunk and more than half-hard in his shorts, forgets that just now. His phone is in his hand, dialing the number without looking. Later, he'll blame the beer and the heat. Right now, he doesn't care.

Dean picks up on the third ring. “Sammy?”

His tone is always concerned at first, like if Sam is calling it's only because he's in trouble, because there's a werewolf in Palo Alto, a restless spirit haunting the halls of Stanford. It's not like they never talk. Dean just always jumps into big-brother mode first. Sam doesn't mind. It's pretty much all he gets of that kind of treatment anymore.

“Hey,” Sam replies, relaxed and loose and he hears Dean's breath huff out, relieved. He can picture Dean's tensed shoulders dropping. “What's up, dude?” Dean asks.

“It's hot as fuck,” Sam complains. “I'm day drinking at the park. Made me think of you.”

Dean snickers. “Sammy, you public menace.”

Sam grins back, Dean's smirk infectious even when it can't be seen. “Just following the family way.”

He regrets it as soon as he says it, hears it fall a bit flat on Dean's ears, but to his credit, Dean just snorts and lets it go. “Nothing better to do with your time, nerd boy? Shouldn't you be studying or something else lame?”

“Studying what, it's summer break,” Sam reminds him. He knows Dean tends to lose track of the weeks and months, knows that life on the road - especially alone - means the days flow together endlessly and unless you're scouting the papers to find a case, you're never really sure what the date is.

“Right,” Dean replies. “Well, at least you're spending it productively.” There's the clacking sound of a keyboard in Sam's ear. “Whatcha workin’ on?” he asks lazily, shoving his cooler two feet to the side and rolling through the grass after it. His shade is moving.

“Case. Some of us actually have real work to do, instead of working on becoming the town hobo.”

“Hey, I work,” Sam protests. “Just not now.”

The crack-hiss of his freshly opened beer isn't missed by Dean. “How many is this?” he asks teasingly. Sam feels brave. “Four? Five? Lost count.”

Dean's inhale is maybe a bit sharper than normal. “Jeez, Sammy. I heard college was bad for binge drinking. Don't become a statistic now.”

Sam pushes a bit. “Pssh, I'm well-trained.” He lets his words slur together just a little. “Have one with me.”

Dean’s reply is a little slow, words a little stilted. “I'm working. And it's not even noon here.”

“Like that's ever stopped you. Where are you?”

“Vermont.”

“Fuck’s in Vermont?”

“Not sure yet. Hence the research.”

“Is it hot there?”

“God no. Raining like a bitch and maybe 55 degrees.”

Sam stretches his foot out into the sunshine, feeling it beat down on his skin. “Did you get a drink?”

Dean sighs heavy into the mouthpiece. “You’re a bad influence, Sammy,” he chides.”Supposed to be the other way around.” There’s rustling, the sound of footsteps over thin carpeting, and then the crack of a can opening. “There, happy now?”

“Not really,” Sam answers, too lulled by heat and alcohol and Dean’s voice, rich in his ear, to lie for once. “Been thinking about stuff.”

 “‘Course you have,” Dean grunts. “Stuff like what?”

 Sam drinks, lets his hand drift down his body, skimming over skin where his sweaty t-shirt has bunched up. The lazy touch feels good and he can almost pretend that it’s Dean’s hand instead of his own. “Just stuff. Like when we’d go swimming and shit when it was hot like this, when we were kids.”

The tone of his voice is obviously getting to Dean, who breathes a bit louder, a bit rougher, into the phone. “Yeah? That’s what you’re thinking about? Just swimming?”

“Not just that,” Sam whispers back, his hand dipping lower to slip beneath the waistband of his shorts. “Other stuff too.”

“Saaam…” Dean’s groan is reluctant, unwilling. “Sam, don’t.”

Sam’s hand is sweaty on the phone, his ear hot where it’s pressed into the skin. “Remember, Dean? When we’d lie out in the sun for hours and touch each other all over, as much as we wanted? No one around to see us. Or when we’d make out in the water, all cool and wet and light, just grinding against each other until we came and the water washed it away.” His hand is shoved down his shorts now, working his aching dick in the confines of the clothing.

“Fuck, Sam. Fuck.” Dean’s voice is ragged now, and if Sam listens hard enough, he can make out just the softest sound of skin on skin, Dean’s hand stroking over himself.

“And you’d get all burnt and freckly and I’d spend so much time just drawing patterns over your skin, until you’d fall asleep, all fucked out and happy.”

Dean’s words, if there are any, are lost in the choked cry that slips from his lips.

Sam sits up suddenly. His hand at work in his pants is not enough. He scans around himself quickly, but the park is quiet and there’s no one around. He scoots out of the shade, needs the sun to beat down on him for this, needs to feel the warmth seeping into his bones, needs to pretend it’s Dean’s warmth spread over him. He unbuttons his shorts and wriggles them down just enough to get his dick out, and then he’s rubbing himself fully, sun in his eyes so he screws them shut.

“Sammy?” Dean is panting hard, air whooshing through the phone, and Sam can picture him, sitting at the table with the laptop open in front of him, leaning back in his chair, head tipped back, his phone wedged between his ear and shoulder as he jerks himself.

“It’s so hot here, Dean,” Sam murmurs, words sloppy with lust and alcohol, sliding together in a rush. “So hot. Sun feels just like you, like you’re on me. With me.” His dick is weeping, slick precome sliding along the shaft, warmed by the rays. He’s so close, all he needs is to hear Dean, hear him coming apart, hear it so clearly he can almost feel it. “Come for me, Dean,” he urges.

Dean’s cry is guttural and low, like it’s torn from deep inside him. “Sammy, Sammy,” he breathes, and it’s enough to push Sam over the edge, spilling over his fist and into the grass.

Sam lies boneless in the sunshine, letting it dry the come on his hand, letting it warm his softening dick. The phone by his ear is almost an afterthought, until he hears noise from the other end. “Dean?”

“Sam. I, uh, I gotta go,” Dean says thickly, biting off his words. “I gotta go.”

“Dean…”

“Talk to you later, man.” The line goes dead in his ear and Sam lets the phone slide into the grass. He tucks himself back into his pants and closes his eyes against the glare.

The sun dries his tears quickly, almost as if they were never even there.


End file.
